


Buried Treasure

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Limbo, M/M, Skinny Dipping, Swimming, partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Limbo's not so bad once you know the way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> Recently a post featuring the NWS photo below (Arthur/Eames skinny-dipping!) wound up on my dash, and this story was buried in there somewhere. :) (Previously located elsewhere.)

  
The first thing Eames does when he opens his eyes is shut them again. It’s not that he’s in denial about where he is; but he didn’t expect it to be so—well, ugly.    
  
As far as Eames can see, scrub brush and sage grass form a ragged line against a long, dismal stretch of beach hardly sandy enough to warrant the name. The lake in front of him doesn’t so much gently lap the shore as resignedly slump against it, grey and uneven. A few hundred feet out a single strip of land forms a half-hearted barrier between their shore and whatever nothingness lies on the unseen opposite side.  
  
He whistles in mock appreciation. Next to him Arthur tenses all over—a sign of normalcy for which Eames is weirdly grateful.  
  
“Well,” Eames says, almost amused by how unexpected this place is, “at least we both managed to wind up in the same spot and not on the opposite side of... wherever we are.”  
  
Arthur’s lips clench, and he looks as if he doesn’t know whether to glare at Eames or the lake. Instead he scoffs down at his shoes. “It’s my fault you’re down here,” he says roughly. “Eames. I’m going to get you out.”  
  
His voice is small, defeated. It’s a voice Eames has heard only twice before, on the only other two occasions when he’s known Arthur to make a mistake, out of all the jobs they worked. Both times Cobb was busy screaming at Arthur for whatever tiny infraction it had been, and both times Eames had to work very hard not to slam his fist against the nearest wall, or, barring that, into Cobb’s smug, deranged face.  
  
Christ, he thinks. He’s got to stop taking jobs like this. Even if jobs like this lead to him having literally all the time in the world to spend down here with Arthur—and, hold on, that’s not bloody well a thought Eames is going to indulge ever again.  
  
“Of course you are,” he says, throwing a pebble into the lake. “We’ll get each other out. We’ve got the advantage of knowing where we are and that we’re going to be down here for a while. Two people, with our heads on straight—we ought to keep each other sane.”  
  
Arthur flinches, still won’t look at him. Eames can _see_ all the ways he’s blaming himself for what happened up there, as if it was his fault Eames had gotten to the rendezvous point before Arthur was free of projections. As if it was his fault their extractor had still been back at the safe and no one had been there to lay cover for Eames. As if he’d been the chemist whose Somnacin batch was strong enough to land them here, when he’d actually been the one to warn the rest of them about the dosage level. As if it was his fault that the extractors they worked with tended to brush off his advice, even though his parts of the job always ran smoothly—more smoothly than any of them, with their incompetence and egos and refusal to appreciate what they had in Arthur, ever deserved.  
  
Eames clears his throat. Right, then, time to work in a distraction before defeated Arthur becomes full-on pouty, petulant-for-days Arthur, because Eames suspects that down here that will mean the epic sulks to end all sulks.  
  
“Well,” he says. “S’long as we’re down here, might as well.”

He takes off his shirt.  
  
Arthur’s eyes narrow. Eames tries not to get distracted by the way his cheekbones seem pointier, jawline sharper, the way he’s always suddenly infinitesimally even more attractive when he’s pissed off.  
  
“You want to _what_?” says Arthur.  
  
Eames flicks the toothpick he’s conjured from somewhere away onto the scrubby patch of grass beside him. Apparently you can engineer tiny sticks of wood, but no door out of Limbo.  
  
“I’m just saying, the water doesn’t look polluted,” he says, with that infuriating carelessness he uses just for Arthur, the tone that he can see shoot straight up Arthur’s veins and into his increasingly wild-looking eyes. “S’not like we’ve anything better to do, is it?”  
  
"We are stuck," Arthur says murderously, “in fucking _Limbo_ , with at least another thirty minutes on the clock up there, and god knows how much fucking time down here, and you want to go _swimming_?"  
  
"Well," says Eames, slipping comfortably into the role of an Eames who is determined not to feel foolish just because Arthur is wrinkling his nose like that. “Yes."  
  
"I saw you have your side torn open up there by a carnivorous food truck driver, and now you want to go for a little dip in the lake," Arthur says, as if he thinks that of all the ridiculous things that have happened to them today, Eames’ suggestion is the most ludicrous. He runs a hand through his hair and then grips it and twists. It makes him look a bit crazy. Eames likes it.  
  
"What if," Eames says, plastering on his most hopeful grin, “we dive down to the bottom and then come up again on the top level! No one’s ever tried that!"  
  
Arthur stares at him for another long moment, still with that wild look of dissipating panic, before he lets it all go and barks out a shrill laugh. Eames loves that laugh, and that moment, the one where Arthur realizes he has totally completely bumfucking lost all semblance of control over a situation. Because Eames may not know how the hell they’re getting out of Limbo, but he knows Arthur, and he knows that these are the moments, when he’s lost everything else, that Arthur finds his deepest reserves of inspiration.  
  
"Right, then," he says cheerily, stripping his undershirt off, then toeing off his shoes and socks. Arthur’s eyes dart automatically over Eames’ chest and Eames tries not to preen. Preening would probably give the game away; instead he finishes stripping down to his boxers and indulges in a long lazy stretch. “How cold’s the water, d’you reckon?" he asks, clocking the way Arthur's nostrils flare as he tries his best not to look at Eames. "I mean, this is supposed to be our collective idea of paradise, yeah? Could do with a bit more tropical breezes."  
  
Arthur frowns and pulls off one shoe, then the sock that goes with it. Eames watches him dig his stubby big toe into the moist earth and wiggle it around a bit. “Actually," Arthur says finally, depositing his weight on the bare foot and removing his other shoe with a sigh, “I think this is the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain."  
  
Eames registers that and then says, “Ah," very neutrally. It doesn’t work; Arthur gives him a sharp look, then starts undoing his belt as if it’s personally offended him.  
  
"I guess you’ve never been here, huh," Arthur says, in that tone that tells Eames he knows this memory is all his own.  
  
"What does it say about me that my subconscious completely defers to yours in matters of landscaping, I wonder," Eames deflects, taking two steps back because now Arthur looks like he wants to take the belt and use it on _him_.  
  
"I used to go diving here," Arthur says, too casually for it to be anything but forced. Sure enough, the hollow of his jaw just below his temple, the dint Eames has spent far too much time thinking about licking, flares for a moment. “When I was a kid," he adds.  
  
"Did you ever find anything?" Eames prods. Arthur stands there in his unbuttoned shirt and stares out at the lake. Eames can’t see the opposite shore, but he can see the cypress and sweetgum trees swallowing the edges in both directions on their side of the coast. He wonders if Cobb’s Limbo looked anything like this. Knowing Cobb, it was probably just a replica of his boring real life.The idea of being trapped in a space like that for the rest of his “life," for however long Limbo lasts, grips his chest all at once. He shivers and looks away from the shore, back to Arthur, who still hasn’t answered him.  
  
"I always thought," Eames says quietly, “that if I ever went to Limbo, I’d immediately start turning things into impossible colors, shapes, sizes—anything and everything I could do to remind myself that the place I was inhabiting wasn’t real."  
  
He doesn’t have to add that there’s something desolate and incredibly, depressingly real about this place, this memory of Arthur’s. The piers further down the stretch of gravel and mud that passes for beach are worn, the paint peeling, the wooden beams leaning towards the water, their edges skewed and their round pillars gouged as if they’d been scraped and shoved at by real boats. Beyond that, there is a row of houses, one level and small, their faces turned toward the road instead of the water with a kind of ironic cynicism Eames doesn’t want to dwell on.  
  
It’s as though the realness of this place, the green-grey horizon and the quiet slop of water over the gravel, has subdued whatever talent for magic-making Eames brought with him down here. He turns back to Arthur, who reads his unfinished thought. He bends over and picks up a grubby stick, prying it out of the mud before tossing it into the lake. It sinks with a loud plop and then vanishes into silence.  
  
Eames wonders if it’s just that Arthur is so indefatigably logical that he’s overridden Eames’ ability to even imagine himself imagining his way out of this place.  
  
Or perhaps it’s just that the memories Arthur has trapped himself in are sepia-toned and solid. Not unlike Arthur himself, but without any of the sparkle, the whisper of delight in things and people and ideas, that endlessly entrances Eames.  
  
But of course there wouldn’t be, Eames realizes; this is Arthur’s subconscious setting. And Eames is sure Arthur has rarely taken delight in what he’s found here.  
  
Still, this is Limbo. There must be something down here to ensnare the mind, keep them here. Perhaps that’s the way out.  
  
"I found a key once," Arthur says. He doesn’t look over at Eames, but he folds his shirt carefully and places it on the ground before stepping out of his trousers and doing the same thing to them. His chest is pale, but slightly sunburnt, splotched with pink along his shoulders and upper arms. Eames wonders if Arthur is sunburnt all the way upstairs as well. He wonders if, after the next eternity of their lives, he’ll still want to find out how those faint pink patches of skin taste.  
  
He can’t imagine ever not. Not while Arthur is here in front of him with his infuriating pout and his intent glare and his vast slippery intellect and his deadpan voice with no give anywhere; his basset-hound eyes and his mouth like a toasted marshmallow, pillowy and delectable right in the center, just waiting to be bitten and nibbled at the edges.  
  
"I was nine," Arthur says, and Eames blinks himself back to the subject at hand. “I went fishing, dove off the pier and found a key buried in the sand around here. It was an antique. You know, a big brass key, the kind that fits into one of those giant door knockers. My grandfather said it was probably just a fake."  
  
Eames hmms. “Probably," he agrees noncommittally. Arthur throws him another sharp look.  
  
"Eames," he says. “This is my subconscious. Why would it fill this place up with something real unless there was some kind of meaning involved?”  
  
“And you think that meaning is the key.”  
  
It’s a close thing, but Eames manages to catch the glimmer of his smile just as it starts to turn up one corner of his mouth. Even when Arthur’s subconscious sends them to the dullest place in the universe, something unexpected peeks through. “And what is it about that key, my dear Arthur, that you’re so interested in?"  
  
Arthur huffs. “It’s a key, Eames. I’m pretty sure you don’t have to read Jung to figure that one out.” He looks down at himself, as if he’s forgotten he’s standing in his boxers. With a warning grimace in Eames’ direction, he pulls off his boxers and starts to wade into the water. It must be at least a little chilly, but leave it to Arthur not to flinch. Eames shivers in his stead and follows after him.  
  
“Darling,” he says. “You’ll catch your death.”  
  
“If I can heat up the temperature of the water, it must be a sign we can manipulate things down here, right?” says Arthur, stepping in up to his knees. “I know this place and I know that key has to be under there, somewhere. If I find it, maybe I can find other things, too."  
  
“Like a way out.”  
  
Arthur turns back and looks at him, his eyes bright. Eames has, so far, failed to realize the sun even existed down here. But now the light suddenly catches Arthur’s hair and cups his cheekbones, and he looks for an instant like a Christmas ornament, lit with gold from the inside out. Eames can’t keep the wonder off his face, doesn’t even try.  
  
“You’ve got a brain down here, too, you know,” Arthur says. Around his knees the water is circling in whorls of muddy pink and red, and Eames wonders if his subconscious has engineered a sunset just to watch the colors play over Arthur’s face. He takes a few steps into the water, spreading his arms like a child afraid to fall. It is warm—much warmer than he expected. Perhaps Arthur’s on to something, and they are able to manipulate much more down here than either of them have realized.  
  
“If you’re saying that you have the key and I have the door, darling, I’d have to say that I expect Jung would have a thing or two to say about that.”  
  
Arthur beams at him. “Eames,” he says. “It’s _Limbo_. What if we were the first people to ever find our way out without having to stay here til the Somnacin wears off? What if we could find the door?”  
  
Eames takes another step and unnecessarily puts his hand out to steady himself on Arthur’s shoulder when he reaches him.  
  
“If you’re trying to make this into a romantic moment, darling,” he says, once he’s secured himself a slippery foothold among the muck of the lake bottom, “you have horrendous timing.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything at first, only looks at Eames with his eyes burning with possibilities. Eames cups the side of Arthur’s face and thumbs his temple, wondering if this, the miracle of Arthur letting Eames touch him, could only happen here, at the end of the world, at the scraped-out bottom of their paired subconscious.  
  
“We could do it, though,” Arthur says, turning ever so slightly into Eames’ touch. “Me and you.”  
  
He doesn’t stiffen or pull away when Eames moves to kiss him, and despite the fact that Eames knows they’re in a dream, and that he’s undoubtedly exaggerating the softness of Arthur’s lips against him, they’re still chapped and narrow and pert against his tongue when he moves to bite them, so real that for a blinding moment it hurts Eames far more than anything else he’s experienced today.  
  
Arthur holds himself apart, but his arms come up to clutch at Eames’ shoulders, and when Eames pulls away, Arthur moves in. After a few moments Eames feels the warm water lapping at his waist, and he realizes that Arthur has been steadily moving further out into the water, tugging Eames with him.  
  
“Why are you so sure that I’m going to conjure the door?” Eames murmurs, feeling a little lost already.  
  
Arthur kisses the side of Eames’ throat, as if they’ve always done this, as if none of this is new and raw and probably terrifying. He tilts his head and lets him, lets him, lets him.  
  
“It’s what you do,” Arthur says after a moment, against Eames’ skin. “You take me out of my own head. And you’ve seen how exciting a place that is, now.”  
  
“I dunno,” Eames says, curving his arms around Arthur’s waist, thumbs moving patterns over his ribs and his muscles and all his delicate, deceptive strength. “You’ve been hiding a pirate’s key here since you were a boy. Sounds like an adventure to me.”  
  
“You would think that,” Arthur says, and god help him, but Eames thinks he hears fondness.  
  
“You should know,” he says, a little unevenly, either because something painful is happening to him topside, or because his chest is playing home to a thousand light-winged butterflies, “that when we wake up, whether it’s in five minutes or fifty years, I’m not letting you take it back.” He kisses Arthur’s temple, then the dimple in the smile that flickers into life like a candle flame when Arthur turns and curls into him. “You _like_ me.”  
  
“Hmph,” Arthur says, and then, “Yeah, maybe,” and then, “Shut up,” before he kisses Eames again, filthy and sweet, bearing him down into the mud.  
  
The water is warm between Eames’ fingers and toes and the crevices of his thighs when Arthur pulls him under the water, but Arthur kisses him like he’s desperate for it, like either of them could vanish at any moment, his hands busy and his eyes wide open.  
  
When Eames finally comes up spluttering, the sun is stippling the water golden-orange. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s the one laughing, and then another to understand that the warm golden hue that’s filtering its way across the horizon isn’t there because of the natural setting of the sun, but because the two of them have gradually transformed this unbearably cold place into a pool of radiant, effusive light.  
  
Eames stretches his fingertips towards the horizon, trying to measure the endlessness of it. He wonders for the first time if this was it all along, if this was how Cobb and Mal really lost themselves—not in some mystical, impossible paradise, but just in each other.  
  
And when he turns back to the shore, Arthur, brilliant, beautiful, beloved, is rising from the water like the lady of the lake, breathless and unfolding his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the lack of actual honeymoon carry in this fic. You'll have to assume Eames took care of that part once they found their way out. :)


End file.
